The flurry of snow didn’t quite cause the tizzy I had hoped for. That tizzy being a day off work. Instead the staff-room was the usual draining affair, menopause and diets (spat through biscuits) and gossip over who may be the female phantom 2pm pooer. I do most of the draining I am sure, the miserable bastard who doesn’t like hearing about labour pains or massive poos whilst he eats his sandwich…call me touchy! The rest of the day involved a meeting in which, quite frankly, I wasn’t in, but I was, but wasn’t at the same time, it passed me by like a Big Issue Seller. The remainder of the day consisted of talks about our moral compass: mine is pointing North West due to the Big Issue seller.
I avoid the changing rooms these days, you only pick up influenza, athletes foot and a sight for sore eyes from Talc-Tackle-Ted & his scrotal spectacle…enough to scare you stiff. On editing that is a poor word choice. I’m talking of the gym, from whence I have come, which was done after my boring day and beans on toast. Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers was on the gym television, a source of enormous motivation to all. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but that on its own is hardly a surge of adrenaline but the fact it had subtitles several seconds behind the plasticine animation hardly made me row quicker. The Roly-Polys enjoyed it as they sat on the bikes, made a screening of it in fact, sausage roll crumbs and cheese & onion fingers washed down with an energy drink. The peddles were glad of the rest I am sure. I suppose they are easing themselves in, and I am sure they had to do that on entrance: greased the door frame and went in with the second class post and a good kick.
This moaning is all part of my crisis by the way: it defects from the arthritic pains and growing weakness that is catching me. It creeps up on you like the hair on your bum, which as we know is tugged from your scalp. In a sick turn of events I am booking myself back for a Tabata session, perhaps I didn’t make it clear to them first time I am actually this fragile. I wonder, if I ask nicely, do you think they will put Wallace & Gromit on?
You have called me Touchy and a Doubting Thomas today, stop it.
I am the Scribbler.
Just back from something called Tabata? Oh my Buddha! If I have not posted again for several days call someone, anyone will do, and tell them not to ever partake in Tabata. I don’t even know how you spell it, let alone know why people do it.
The only satisfying element was the realisation this mid-life crisis I have planned is timed just right. Forget fit as a butchers dog, I am as fit as a pork scratching, the butchers dog will gobble me up.
Lunge after press-up after squat after burpee after …I feel frail.
Would I have performed better wearing the tight vest that the old chap with vanishing sweaty hair wore? I doubt it. He was not Popeye. Ga ga ga.
But I need the spinach.
I’m off to slumber, I have ordered the crane to lift me in the morning.
It’s a dirty job.
Said the Vet.
It’s a dirty job.
Possibly said the doctor.
The cat is having her teeth out today. A dirty job because bits of stray tooth/gum take to the air and grip to the wall. Begging for a sticker and a lolly the rotten scoundrels will never return to the red, ROAR gums. A pleasant image. Next stop was the doctors, 11am. The same fiancée I told you of yesterday in a lowering of my shield had to lower her pants to share, bare-faced, her cheeks to the doctor. She had been bitten on her bum, alas not by me (nor the cat though that would have been a tidy plot line) but a mysterious yet daring creature. A dirty job indeed. Leaving not only with smug memories the bug has left a reminder
in on her rear, a honking great whoopee-cushion sized infection…how immusing it would be if it parfffed when sat upon, but it doesn’t – the infection doesn’t, her bottom may, but this is my fiancée, it doesn’t so stop suggesting!
She’s not back yet, apparently she’s acting insensible, still anesthetized and drugged up to the eyeballs. The cat not my fiancée, my fiancée is back. When cat does return the house will be two-thirds invalid, one-third detached yet still terraced.
The gym did happen as muttered yesterday. You never forget how to ride a bike…you do forget what cartilage in your knees tastes like. Are you proud? I thought so. I never broke sweat to tell the truth. To tell a lie I cried pain like the suffocated scrotum in the spandex shorts, leaving a puddle of DNA on every clanking machine in the windowless pit. As if I would wear spandex, absurd!
A dirty job.
I am 30. The Olympics have been and gone (hardly sneaked by did they?) but I am confident the treadmill of time has not caught me yet. To prove it I shall book an event to aim for…to give me another signficant event to focus on this year. I will tell you of planned others in due course.
Must dash I have cat food to blend and a bottom to laugh at.